


You Are All I Ever Longed For

by MeganWrites



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Private Investigator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23437951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeganWrites/pseuds/MeganWrites
Summary: Private Ian Gallagher is wanted by the US Army for going AWOL. Mickey Milkovich, a private investigator, is hired to find him.[reposting of an old work]
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 24
Kudos: 146





	You Are All I Ever Longed For

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted May 2015.
> 
> Fyi, lots of liberties taken with this but just run with it.

Ian Gallagher is not what Mickey expected.

He thought that Gallagher would be buff or at least broader, maybe with cropped short hair, a tan from his time out of the country, and a stiffer stance. It's probably just a stigma, expecting the military brat to always look like a military brat, but it still surprises Mickey when he finally tracks Ian down. He’s pale as shit and a bit lanky like he grew too fast at one point and it took a while for the rest of his body to catch up. He does still look very fit - maybe thin and toned is a better way to describe him. Even though he walks like he's more loose and relaxed than the average soldier, he stands up straight and walks tall, his one dead giveaway (except for what is no doubt a very fit body). He has big feet and big hands, and Mickey's pretty sure his eyes are green - not that he's gotten close enough to tell for certain.

He also has red hair that isn't shaved down but still relatively short (longer than Mickey would ever wear it though), but that isn't a physical trait that Mickey likes to focus on.

That can be changed easily by a man on the run.

Colonel Lowe, back at the army base, had given Mickey two months to find Gallagher, turns out that was a bit of an overestimate since it's been less than a week and Mickey's staring right at his mark. Mickey thinks about calling it in, letting the Colonel know that he found Private Gallagher skipping around Southside Chicago in cargo shorts with a little black kid clutching his hand, but then he thinks maybe it's too soon. He was offered a nice sum of money for finding Gallagher and Mickey wonders if that's something they would stand by knowing how fucking easy this job is (he's had clients that get picky like that before, it's a fucking pain in the ass for someone like Mickey who is still _technically_ not licensed to do this shit).

So Mickey puts away his phone and settles in to keep track of Gallagher. Only for another week or two, make sure it still looks impressively fast but not too fast, because honestly, Mickey doesn't give a shit about whether or not Ian Gallagher goes to army jail for whatever jarhead bullshit he pulled. All Mickey cares about is getting his paycheck.

If that means waiting, he can wait.

-

Mickey has some pretty clear rules for himself when tailing a mark:

Don’t get caught tailing the mark.

Don’t interact with the mark.

Don’t let the mark out of sight.

It makes work simple and a little boring, it mostly becomes Mickey just napping in his car and sitting on benches. The movies make his line of work look a lot more exciting than it is. But it’s all worth it when he gets a nice paycheck and doesn’t have to deal with some shitty boss.

Plus the detective work leading up to tailing a mark is always kind of fun.

-

It becomes painfully evident that Gallagher wouldn't know how to stay on the run if he needed to.

Mostly because he does need to right now and it turns out he's shit at it.

When Mickey was first hired they had no information on the guy other than his name, and even then they said he might be going by Lip (who turns out to be the older brother). It's a few days after Mickey's already tracked Gallagher down that he gets sent an email with a picture of Gallagher. It's a bit hard for Mickey to recognize the same guy he's been following around the past few days as the one in the photo. He looks like a dead-eyed soldier in the photo; nothing to look forward to except getting shot at in a different country.

Jesus Christ, it's depressing as hell to look at.

(The Gallagher that Mickey sees walking out of his apartment, going to visit his family, or working at a shitty clothing retail job in the mall, that Ian is different. He's not obnoxiously happy and when he smiles it's always a little small, a bit sad, but he's expressive and there's an intriguing depth to him that's rare to find.)

Mickey didn't need the picture though because after Gallagher went on the run from the Rock Island army base, he left a trail so large that even a blind man could follow.

It seems like he didn't even try to hide, just recklessly made his way along. Ian had stopped in a couple of towns, taken a long detour south to St. Louis, worked in clubs and bars for a few weeks and then kept moving. He started going by Curtis professionally, but that was the only change he even tried to make, and then he told enough to his co-workers to make it clear which way he was going until it was obvious that Chicago had been his endpoint.

Predictably, running back to the home town and his family.

Though Mickey guesses it was at least smart to get his own place instead of living with his family, just maybe he shouldn't have signed his real name on the rental contract.

So yeah, a criminal mastermind Gallagher is not.

Mickey kind of wonders if he even realizes someone is after him.

-

Gallagher’s job is at a generic piece of shit clothing store. Granted, it’s probably better than the stream of clubs he was dancing at before, but it’s still a piece of shit clothing store.

There’s a steady stream of pre-teens coming in and out the door, each of them with blonde hair in high ponytails and too much eyeliner. Honestly, it’s a little peculiar to see because each girl looks like a clone of the one before. The guys that go in aren’t any better than the girls. Mickey at least figured that sitting in the mall he might get some eye candy but the only guys that go in the store seem to be pimply teenagers or dude-bros (tan, tank tops, flat-bill baseball cap, and inevitably wearing a polo shirt).

And the worst part about this piece of shit clothing store is that the section Ian works in is completely blocked off, forcing Mickey to take a midday stroll into the hell-scape that is a piece of shit clothing store.

He feels out of place the second he’s crossed the threshold, suspiciously eying the graphic tees with cheesy slogans and a section that seems to be dedicated to a vast variety of V-necks. Mickey frowns and scans the store, he doesn’t see Gallagher and that makes him a bit nervous, he’s always wary of marks taking off. He steps over to the shirts, reaching up to touch the fabric of one of them, just wasting time so it doesn’t look quite as odd that he’s just hanging out in the middle of a clothing store that’s not even close to catering to guys like him.

“That’d look good on you.”

Mickey drops his hand quickly and turns his head sharply. Of course, the employee that has to be bugging him is fucking Gallagher. So much for his rule about no interaction.

“What would?” Mickey asks before he can think of an excuse to just leave without being suspicious.

Gallagher leans against one of the clothing racks and nods to the shirt Mickey had been toying with. “The V-necks,” Ian says and smiles easily, “I think blue would probably be best on you though, match your eyes or something.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow and snorts, “Is that one of your guy’s shitty sales techniques, gushin’ about the customer’s eyes?"

Gallagher's neck and face flush a light pink as he scratches the back of his neck, "Uhm, no," he laughs awkwardly and shifts on his feet, "Just something I noticed."

Mickey licks his lower lip and eyes Gallagher in a way he's sure isn't remotely subtle. He probably shouldn't be doing this, flirting instead of making himself scarce in the least memorable way, but Gallagher's hard to turn away from. He's a lot hotter up close and personal. So, instead of making an excuse to leave, as he should, Mickey says, "Is that so? Well, how 'bout you just keep on tellin’ me about what makes my eyes look pretty."

Gallagher smiles and shrugs, "Something else blue, probably? I didn't really have a follow up to that."

"Smooth."

“Yeah, yeah,” Gallagher says, laughing a little easier now that Mickey’s joked with him. “Well, I guess if you need anything I’ll be right over there,” Gallagher points to a table with a pile of messed up shirts and pants just five or six feet away, “Or if you don’t need anything, I’ll be over there too.”

Mickey bites down on his lower lip again, trying to hide his smile at the weirdly charming and awkwardly adorable redhead in front of him. “Yeah, ‘aight, now go get back to work,” Mickey says gruffly and waves Gallagher away.

Most people would consider Mickey rude, but Gallagher just smiles once again and goes back over to the table he was folding clothes at. Mickey watches Ian walk away and can't help but notice that his smile is just a little bit brighter than it usually is.

-

Mickey’s coffee tastes like shit and it’s distracting. Every time he takes a sip he has to pause and cringe, wondering who the fuck likes this shit. He walks up to the counter and grabs the sugar, dumping even more in than he had originally to the point that he’s pretty sure there’s more sugar than coffee.

At least then maybe it won’t taste so bad.

He drops back into his seat near the window and looks out at the park across the street. He frowns as he scans the crowds, Gallagher had been over there before he stood up but Mickey can’t spot him anywhere. He feels a sharp pang of panic at the thought that he may have lost his mark for as stupid of a reason as shitty coffee.

He must have just left, Mickey decides, and he probably didn’t run because he was with his younger brother. Gallagher probably just went back to his family home to drop the kid off, Mickey can drive that way in a couple of minutes and he’ll probably find Gallagher strolling along.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Fucking hell.

Mickey looks away from the window and up to see Gallagher standing beside his table with his little brother sitting on his shoulders and playing with his hair.

“Uh, hey,” Mickey greets him and waves awkwardly. As fucking if Gallagher managed to sneak up on him a second time. He’s seriously starting to question whether he’s lost his touch and if he should be considering retirement.

“Figured that after you left the store I’d never see you again,” Gallagher says and it honestly seems like he’s pleasantly surprised that wasn’t true.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow, “You put that much thought into some you talked to for two seconds?”

Gallagher shrugs, jostling his brother a little with the motion, “Meeting you was the most interesting thing that happened that shift.”

“Glad I could entertain.”

Gallagher flashes his teeth and laughs loudly, once again throwing Mickey for a loop when he isn’t offended by Mickey’s naturally dismissive behaviour.

“So, do you live around here then?”

Mickey takes a sip of his coffee, preparing himself for the next few minutes of questions about who he is. This is the part he always tries to avoid. Of course, he has all the answers prepared just in case, but it’s still something he doesn’t tend to like. Mickey’s a fairly blunt person, so whether he likes it or not, he’s a bad liar.

Sure, he’s told lies before, massive lies that have dictated every action in his life ( _“Yes, Dad, I am super fucking straight”_ ), but these are a different type of lie. These are white lies, meaningless little lies that he can’t even try to make himself believe.

“Yeah, just moved,” Mickey answers, clicking his tongue and picking at the sleeve on his coffee cup.

“Cool, where from?”

“Detroit,” Mickey mentally curses himself when he says it because that’s kind of true.

“Detroit,” Gallagher echoes and hums, “So, what drew you to Southside Chicago, can’t say it’s a popular spot.”

“Business,” Mickey answers coolly, maybe a little too quickly, fuck he’s bad at this part.

Gallagher smirks and nods his head, “I guess that’s why most people move.”

Mickey keeps his face straight, hand clenching tightly around his coffee cup to the point he thinks it might break. Ian isn’t as shy as he was before, he’s bolder now and that makes Mickey fucking nervous. It’s not as clear now that Ian is innocent as to why Mickey is actually here.

“I used to live here,” Mickey finds himself blurting out if only to make himself seem less suspicious, “When I was a kid I lived here, so when my work offered a transfer here I thought it’d be nice to come back.”

Gallagher eyes him cautiously, his voice taking a false cheery tone when he says, “I guess there’s no place like home.”

“Right,” Mickey says and looks away from Ian, the conversation isn’t going well. Every word feels tense like he and Gallagher are facing off in a battle of wits, even though neither of them seems to have the fucking wits to win. It’s uncomfortable and Mickey just wants to get the fuck out of the coffee shop and away from Gallagher.

Gallagher stands still, blocking any fast exit strategy that Mickey can come up with, especially since Gallagher’s arms are crossed and his biceps are bulging. Mickey isn’t sure if he’s turned on or worried he’s about to get his ass kicked.

“Well, neighbour,” Gallagher shoots him a cheeky grin and extends his right hand, “I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline because it’s like the guy is willingly diving into shark-infested waters. What type of person on the run just announces their fucking name - their real fucking name - in the middle of a coffee shop?

What a fucking idiot. If Gallagher is really this fucking stupid then maybe Mickey doesn’t have to worry.

Mickey contemplates giving Gallagher a fake name for just a second before he says, “Mickey.”

Gallagher nods and glances up to where his little brother has been sitting quietly and patiently on his shoulders. “Well, nice seeing you again, Mickey,” Ian says, “I’ve got to get this little guy the cookie I promised him but maybe I’ll see you around.”

Mickey expects Ian to walk away then but instead Ian stays standing in front of him, waiting for some type of response. Mickey frowns, “Yeah, alright, see you around, Gallagher.”

“Ian,” Gallagher corrects sharply.

Mickey barely resists rolling his eyes and huffs out a deep breath of air. Of course, the AWOL army brat doesn’t want to be called by his last name anymore. Fucking typical.

“Fine, Ian,” Mickey says and gives Gallagher a pleasant smile that’s just as fake as all of Ian’s have been, “See you around.”

Gallagher smirks, looking smug as hell when he walks away like somehow getting Mickey to call him by his first name means that he won. Mickey grumbles and sips at his coffee, nearly choking when he remembers how fucking shitty it tastes. He looks up to see Gallagher smiling and joking with his little brother, picking out one of the cookies in the display case.

Mickey glares and dips his head to focus back on his coffee and the scratched up wood of the table. Mickey can call the guy Ian all he wants, doesn’t change the fact that in the end, Mickey’s going to win.

-

Honestly, Ian Gallagher is a risk that Mickey doesn’t need right now.

He’s almost positive that Ian is on to him or at least suspicious that Mickey has something weird going on, there’s no way he doesn’t after the shit at the coffee shop, and that’s not the only time either. The next day Ian walked up to his car and knocked on his window asking what he was doing, then the day after he caught Mickey sitting near his work once again. And Mickey, Mickey doesn’t have any good reason to give him as to why he’s all the same places Ian is.

People who live in the same neighbourhood don’t run into each other that often. Ian has to know and he’s about to start running, Mickey’s almost positive of it.

This would be the time to turn Ian in, just one simple phone call. Mickey will get to be smug as shit while Ian is drug off to jail and Mickey gets his nice payout.

He spends an entire day debating it.

In the end, he doesn’t make the call. Just because he doesn’t want to make the call only to have Ian take off right after; he doesn’t want his credibility shot to shit. Or at least, that’s the only reason he’ll let himself think.

-

The day has just started, the sun still rising, and Mickey is sitting in his car outside of Ian’s apartment when the passenger side door opens and Ian slides into the seat. Mickey honestly should have seen this coming.

“Nice car,” Ian says smoothly, smiling confidently as he gets comfortable.

“Fuck you,” Mickey grunts because it’s a really shitty old car and Ian’s an ass. He grabs a cigarette from the centre console, preparing himself for whatever information grabbing conversation is about to take place.

He wishes Ian would just start running, maybe then Mickey could figure out what the fuck he wants to do.

“They gave the last guy an SUV, you know,” Ian comments and looks around Mickey’s old junker. “Well, they lent it to him, but still.”

Mickey freezes, “The fuck are you talking about?”

Ian laughs dryly and lets out a deep sigh, “That’s right, you’re still pretending that you weren’t hired to track me down by the US army.” He turns to look Mickey dead in the eye, “Maybe I should have led with that.”

Fuck. _Fuck._ Mickey fucked up big time. He knew he should have called earlier, should have called the second he saw Ian walking out of his apartment. He clenches his fists, cracking some of his knuckles in the process, he kind of just wants to hit something - or someone.

“You’re good though,” Ian continues as if Mickey isn’t ten seconds from breaking his fucking face, “I didn’t even notice you were following me until you came into the store. Well, maybe a little after that.”

And now Mickey wants to break his own face too, maybe he can just head-butt Ian and get a two for one deal. _Yeah_ , he fucked up.

Mickey takes a final drag of his cigarette before crushing the rest in his cup holder. He breathes out deeply through his nose and sucks on his teeth, finally turning to look back at Ian when he says, “So, what the fuck are you still doing here?”

Ian holds Mickey’s gaze unflinchingly, “I don’t want to leave. My home is here, my family is here, I’m content.”

“You’re not gonna be so content when they lock you up.”

“That’s why I came to talk to you.”

Mickey lets out a humourless laugh, “I don’t give a shit about charity cases, Ian, they offered up a pretty penny for your ass and I’m not turnin’ that shit down.”

“How much?” Ian asks, straight-faced and determined.

“Twenty grand,” Mickey answers and feels a twinge of guilt when he sees Ian’s expression falter.

Ian nods, seeming to quietly contemplate what options he has left before he says, “I’ll pay it.”

Mickey snorts and shakes his head, “No offense, but there’s no fucking way you’ve got that kind of money.”

“I don’t, not yet, but I will.” Ian says and meets Mickey’s eyes once again, “I just need a little bit of time and then I can pay you.”

Mickey doesn’t believe him. He’s seen the shithole apartment and the even shittier family home, there’s no way Ian’s getting that money. Mickey considers briefly how easy it would be to just knock Ian out and give the army base a call, or better yet, just drive Ian there himself. Except he doesn’t want to do that because something about Ian makes him fucking soft.

“‘Aight, I can give you one month,” Mickey says, raising one finger to emphasize the point, “And by then I better have all that money because if I don’t, you gotta come with me willingly. Don’t even think about runnin’ either because I’m not goin’ anywhere until I’ve got that money in my hand - don’t care if it’s from you or them.”

Ian smiles, looks a little relieved, “Sounds fair.”

Mickey huffs and looks away from Ian. He’s not thrilled with this deal, not thrilled with himself, and definitely not thrilled with how Ian’s stupid little smile is making him feel the slightest bit better. Mickey’s just ready for Ian to get the fuck out of his car and let him drown his sorrows in a pack of cigarettes and coffee that may as well be warm sugar water.

Fuck, he needs an actual fucking drink.

Ian doesn’t get out of the car, just sits there watching Mickey and smiling. “Thanks,” Ian says and he sounds sincere so instead of saying something rude Mickey just nods. Ian looks out the car windows and laughs, “So, is Mickey you’re real name then?”

Yeah, that’s just about all Mickey can take.

“Yes. Now get the fuck out of my car.”

Ian just laughs again and then he’s gone, calling out, “See ya around, Mick.”

Mickey really, _really_ fucked up.

-

The nice part of Ian knowing Mickey is there is that Mickey doesn’t have to be discreet anymore. He can sit outside Ian’s work all day without worrying about looking suspicious and trying to come up with a false excuse for everything he does.

Ian already knows Mickey is just there to make sure he doesn’t take off and that makes his job even simpler.

He’s surprised by how casual Ian is about it too. He’ll walk out of his apartment in the morning and wave to Mickey before he heads out on a run, then grab Mickey a coffee when he stops to get his own on the way to work. On his lunches he’ll grab something to eat and then make his way back to sit on the bench outside his work with Mickey, chatting animatedly about his day and never failing to at least make Mickey smile once.

“You like ice cream, right?” Ian says as he drops into the seat beside Mickey and offers him an ice cream cone, clutching another for himself on the other hand. It’s one of Ian’s fifteen-minute breaks, usually, he just spends those in the backroom and Mickey hadn’t expected to see him out of the store.

Mickey cocks a judgemental eyebrow and grabs the cone from Ian’s outstretched hand. “Isn’t that something you usually ask before buyin’ the ice cream?”

Ian shrugs, “Yeah, but I figured the answer would be yes, I’ve noticed you have a sweet tooth.”

“You spyin’ on me now?” Mickey asks, surprised when he realizes that Ian also somehow managed to get his favorite flavour; cherry.

“Maybe,” Ian snickers and licks at his ice cream, “I guess you’re a bad influence on me.”

“I don’t spy on you,” Mickey defends sharply, probably dampening any threatening attitude by returning quickly to eating his ice cream. He can’t help it if it’s a hot day and the ice cream is fucking good. “I’m just following you,” he explains and sniffs.

“Right, just following me and keeping tabs on everything I do in a day, but not spying.” Ian laughs and rests back in his seat, smiling softly as he looks at Mickey, “Maybe I’m not spying either, then. Maybe I just want to know a little more about you.”

Mickey’s lips quirk involuntarily at the corners, he quickly takes a bite of the ice cream to hide it (Ian cringes at that, he’s probably one of those people with sensitive teeth, too delicate to chew on something a little cold) and grumbles, “Fuck off, Ian.”

Ian laughs loudly and stands up, “Alright, I’ve got to get back to work anyways. Good talk, as always, Mickey.”

And then Ian’s walking away, back into the store, but not before shooting Mickey a large smile over his shoulder. And damn it, Mickey doesn’t stop himself from smiling back.

There’s just something about the guy.

It’s really fucking weird.

-

Ian’s a good looking guy (well, maybe more than good looking, maybe he’s fucking ridiculously sexy and Mickey’s just trying to downplay it a bit). He’s one of those people that can hardly try and just end up looking better than the rest of the world. Mickey hadn’t noticed it much before, kept himself at a distance and kept Ian at a strictly objective arm’s length.

That all went to hell the second he walked into the fucking clothing store for the first time because there isn’t a single soul in the world who would be able to stay objective with Ian standing two feet in front of them.

That becomes painfully, fucking obvious.

It’s only been a week since Ian caught Mickey red-handed (or napping in his car) and in that time Ian has managed to go on at least one date every single night. And it’s not the kind of date that Mickey would call a ‘date’ either because to Mickey a ‘date’ is finding someone decent at a club and then fucking in the back alley. No dinner, no candlelight, no sweet whispers in each other’s ears - just dirt, grim, ass, and dick.

Ian is the opposite. Ian is fancy restaurants, drinking wine, getting to know each other, three-course meals, and eventually - sometimes - going back to their place. Also, his taste in men is shit. Who the fuck wants to go on a date with a sixty-year-old queen? Ian Gallagher, that’s who the fuck.

The worst part of these dates is that Mickey has become an unfortunate accessory. He goes in just after Ian, sits at a table far enough away that he can’t hear them talk but close enough that Ian is never out of sight. Then he spends the next couple hours pissing the waiters off by ordering water and a salad, filling up on the complimentary bread rolls and resisting the urge to buy a steak (because he can’t afford a fucking steak every night of the week, unlike the rich fucks Ian likes to get off with).

Mickey watches as Ian laughs at something his fourth date of the week says, brushing a hand through his styled hair and unbuttoning his suit jacket.

No, this is probably the worst part, because if Ian looks amazing on a bad day then it’s God’s gift to the earth when Ian puts in an effort. Mickey’s a sucker for a man in a suit (second only to a man in nothing) and Ian puts every single other man to shame.

And Mickey can’t do a damn thing about it except watch some sleazy old fuck get to rub his hands all over Ian. Yeah, this is the worst part.

It’s about halfway through the meal when Ian excuses himself from the table, leaning over to kiss his date lightly before he stands and goes through the doors to the washroom. Mickey yawns and scratches at his neck. He feels like he’s been here for hours and he’s getting fucking tired of picking at rabbit food.

“Don’t look so excited, Mick,” Ian says and slides into the seat across from Mickey a minute or two later. “Is this restaurant not what you were hoping for?”

Mickey snorts, “Yeah, you think next time you can get Grandpa to take you to a McDick’s or some shit.”

Ian laughs and Mickey happily notices how genuine this laugh seems in comparison to all the others during the evening. “What? You’re craving questionable burgers when you have a perfectly good salad in front of you?”

“‘ _Perfectly good’_ and _‘salad’_ don’t belong in the same fuckin’ sentence,” Mickey answers, leaning forward and picking at another piece of lettuce.

“What if I said ‘there’s no salad that is perfectly good’?” Ian smirks challengingly.

“Then you sound like a smartass,” Mickey says, resting back in his chest and running his tongue over his lower lip. Fuck, Ian looks fucking delectable. “And nobody likes a smartass, Ian.”

Ian hums and nods, he rests his elbows on the table and leans forward, quietly saying, “I think some people might, actually.”

Mickey quirks his eyebrows, “Some people, huh?”

Ian nods, “Yeah, some people.”

Ian’s looking Mickey up and down, letting his eyes linger on Mickey’s lips for a second too long and then back to his eyes. The implication of an offer is there, it’s fucking blaring, and Mickey’s not stupid enough to miss it.

But he’s also not stupid enough to take Ian up on it.

“Pretty sure your boyfriend is one of those people,” Mickey answers, nodding to the table where Ian’s date is sitting completely oblivious to where Ian might be.

Ian looks over his shoulder and laughs lowly, turning back to Mickey with an easy smile, “Could be,” he says and shrugs, “but he’s also fucking boring.”

“Coulda told you that before we wasted a couple of hours here,” Mickey quips grumpily, finding himself less annoyed than he should be (and maybe a bit relieved that Ian doesn’t actually like this guy).

“True, but then we would have missed out on the delicate ambience,” Ian jokes, accentuating the sentence to match the over-the-top proper speech all the waiters have been using.

Mickey snorts, letting it roll into a laugh and Ian laughs loudly along with him, both of them earning dirty looks from neighbouring tables. It takes a moment before Mickey calms himself a bit, chuckling lowly as he admires Ian’s large and proud grin, like making Mickey laugh was a prize he’s now won.

“Do you actually like this, though?” Mickey asks after a second and waves his hand around gesturing to the restaurant, “You know, the five fucking courses and douchebag waiters? You that one Southside kid that wants to make the prince and the pauper a true story?”

“Well, I’d have to switch places with someone for that.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes at Ian’s smug smile, “You know what I mean.”

Ian purses his lips and thinks for a minute before answering, “I guess I don’t mind it, I mean, it’s nice sometimes to pretend this is the kind of world I could fit into - the kind of person I could be.”

“But?” Mickey prompts.

Ian meets Mickey’s eyes, “I don’t fit in here and this isn’t me. I don’t think I would want it to be either though. Maybe that’s weird but I know who I am, and while sometimes it’s nice to get away, I don’t want to change that.”

Mickey’s impressed, and maybe a little more interested in knowing about the Ian Gallagher he didn’t read about in the folder the army gave him. He likes that Ian is comfortable with where he is because for guys like Ian (and guys like Mickey) that’s rare to find. Hell, it’s probably rare to find for anybody.

Ian’s probably one in a million.

Which is just fucking cheesy as hell to even think.

“Why do you go on dates to places like this every night then? Or hang out with geezers like him?” Mickey can’t stop himself from asking, too curious to care that this is only helping to build up an emotional attachment.

"You mean other than everything I just told you?"

Mickey shrugs sheepishly, "Yeah?"

Ian laughs and leans forward again, “Rich old guys have nice stuff.”

Mickey’s jaw almost drops, because what the fuck.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You’re stealing their shit?” Mickey hisses quietly, leaned forward on the table as well, “You do realize that the law is already after you, right?”

Cue Ian’s incredible ability to be the worst criminal in the world.

Ian nods and shrugs, “Exactly, so what’s the harm? Gotta get that money for you somehow. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to get caught, closeted guys will never admit to anything that could lead back to their big gay secret.”

Alright, maybe not the worst criminal.

Mickey laughs and shakes his head, without thinking he says, “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Is _‘something else’_ something good?” Ian asks, half a smile creeping up onto his face.

Mickey doesn’t answer, just smiles back and knows with complete certainty that any effort he could have made to stop an emotional attachment has been completely lost.

-

Ian knocks on the window to Mickey’s car and grins when Mickey responds by flipping him off. Mickey had been trying to relax a bit, Ian was just taking his brother, Liam, to the fucking park again so Mickey figured he had a bit, after all, if Ian is going to run it won’t be with a four-year-old.

Ian motions for Mickey to roll the window down, seeming to grin just a bit wider when Mickey complies.

“Come hang out with us,” Ian says quickly.

Mickey frowns deeply, “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?”

Ian shakes his head, his little brother mimicking his actions with a big smile that matches Ian’s. When Mickey sees Ian and his little brother standing next to each other, they do have quite a few facial similarities.

“It’ll be fun,” Ian prods and even goes so far to poke Mickey’s shoulder, “I promise you’ll have a good time.”

“Watchin’ fifteen little shitheads climbing all over that rickety piece of shit you call a playground?” Mickey mocks, clicking his tongue and shaking his head, “No thanks.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re kind of doing that anyway and you’d look a lot less creepy there then you do sitting in your car,” Ian comments teasingly.

Mickey snorts, he didn’t consider that but he supposes that Ian might be right. He cracks his neck, stretching out his back and rolling his shoulder before he pulls his keys out of the ignition and steps out of his car.

“This is not us hanging out,” Mickey says sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Ian, “This is just me getting some fresh air.”

“Right,” Ian says, elongating the word as they make their way through the park and over to the playground, “Just getting fresh air, but while you follow me and sit next to me and talk to me.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey shoves at Ian’s shoulder and looks away to hide his smile, “Who says I’m gonna talk to you?”

“Well, what else were you planning to do?”

“Smoke.”

Ian laughs loudly, shoulders shaking as Liam clings to his hand and laughs along (Mickey doubts Liam gets the joke, hell, it wasn’t even really a joke and Mickey didn’t even think it was very funny, but it’s kind of cute how the kid copies what Ian’s doing - like he wants to be just like his older brother).

“We’re going to sit by a playground,” Ian explains, still chuckling slightly as he speaks, “I don’t think the parents are going to think too highly of you smoking by their kids.”

Mickey furrows his brow, looking over at Ian like he’s crazy, “This is fuckin’ Southside Chicago - Back of the Yards, they should just be glad I’m not smokin’ crack.”

Ian snorts loudly as they finally reach the playground, Liam taking off excitedly and rushing to the jungle gym as fast as his little legs will let him. Mickey half-smiles at the kid's excitement and weird run, it is kind of cute.

“So,” Ian says as the sit on a nearby bench, “Mickey, did you actually used to live in Detroit?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows judgmentally, “And what the fuck makes you think I would tell you?”

Ian shrugs, “Because I’m asking.”

Mickey narrows his eyes, trying to determine when exactly the shy, nervous guy telling him about V-necks turned into this cocky asshole. Probably when he realized who Mickey was. Whatever it is, Mickey likes it. Confidence looks good on Ian.

“Yeah, that was true,” Mickey answers, “Used to live on the Southside though, couple blocks from your family’s place actually, and then my dad got into some shit with some people and we left.”

“Makes sense,” Ian says and doesn’t push further. Mickey’s fucking grateful for that too. Mickey doesn’t like to talk about his past too much, doesn’t like to think about it either. He overcame a fuck ton of obstacles to get where he is in life, Terry being one of the biggest, and now that he’s passed them… that’s where he likes to leave them. In the past.

Ian reaches over, startling Mickey’s thoughts when he presses a finger on Mickey’s cheek and draws back quickly.

“The fuck?” Mickey snaps, clenching one hand into a fist on habit.

Ian laughs and holds up his pointer finger, “Relax, you had an eyelash.”

Mickey scowls, “Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

Ian grins and nods, extending his finger in front of Mickey, “Now make a wish and blow it.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?” Ian asks and leans forward, voice deepening, “No deep dark desires you want to come true.”

Fuck, how is it that Ian can make something like making a wish on a fucking eyelash seem sexual. Fucking ridiculous. Mickey bites his lower lips, eyes meeting Ian’s for a short heated second before he shakes his head.

Ian closes his eyes and blows, smiling when he opens his eyes, “Good thing I have lots then.”

Mickey doesn’t miss the way Ian looks at him or the way his knuckles brush against Mickey’s thigh. Ian wants this, and fuck, Mickey wants this too, but it’s a bad idea. He clears his throat and shuffles down the bench a bit, trying to create some extra space between them.

Ian’s going to be the fucking death of him.

-

Mickey’s sitting in his car, parked in the underground parking lot at the mall. Ian’s not quite done work yet but it’s been hours since Mickey’s had a cigarette and he needs to sate his cravings (it’s not like he can do anything about his other very, very tempting craving). It’s a risk Mickey normally wouldn’t bother with, leaving his mark out of his sight and with at least ten different exit points, but he kind of trusts Ian not to take off.

It’s disconcerting how much Mickey now thinks of Ian as a friend, or a crush, or fucking something that means Mickey wants to kiss him stupid.

Mickey rationalizes by telling himself it’s only because it’s not in Ian’s character to run from a deal he’s made, and that the exit Mickey’s car is parked by is the most practical because it’s right next to the L, so why would Ian bother with any other exit?

He glances at the clock on the dash and takes another puff, blowing the smoke out through his nose. It’s about fifteen minutes after Ian’s shift ended, the L has just gone past and Ian missed it. Mickey should probably be worried now, but he isn’t.

It’s so fucking disconcerting.

The passenger side door swings open and Mickey thinks to himself that he should probably start locking it. Ian plops into the seat holding a large brown paper bag with an incredible smell wafting from it.

“The fuck you doing?” Mickey asks, cigarette propped between his lips so he ends up talking out of the side of his mouth.

“If you’re going to follow me around all day I may as well at least get a ride out of it,” Ian says cheekily, “I mean, we are going to the same place.”

Mickey stares at Ian, straight-faced and unimpressed (even though maybe he’s not totally against the idea of driving Ian around, talking to him a little more, learning more about him, maybe fucking around a little bit).

Ian holds up the bag, “And if you come up to my place, I’ll even feed you dinner.”

Mickey looks at the bag and then back to Ian. Mickey would be lying if he said that hanging out with Ian, and being invited into his apartment, isn’t something he wants. Plus, the food does smell really fucking good.

“Fine,” Mickey grumbles and puts the car in reverse, trying to ignore how bright Ian’s smile gets when he starts to drive.

-

Ian bought Chinese food for them. It’s greasy as fuck, probably less than authentic, and so fucking good. Mickey’s more inclined to order pizza when he gets take out so Chinese is a pleasant break from that. Especially because Mickey is a big fan of egg rolls and anything with a thick layer of batter coating it. 

Mickey’s sitting on one end of Ian’s couch, hunched over with a fork (because fuck chopsticks, his hands aren’t made to work like that) while Ian is sitting campfire style at the other end, awkwardly using chopsticks as if he’s trying to prove he knows how to use them when he doesn’t have a fucking clue (it’s a little adorable to see how determined he is).

“So how did you get into the Private Investigator business?” Ian asks in between bites, “Seems like a weird career to just decide on.”

Mickey shrugs, it didn’t seem so weird when he picked it, just seemed like something he might as well be doing. “I used to do this sort of shit for my Pop’s all the time. He would deal, drugs and guns and shit, then if they didn’t pay up I would track them down. After I took off from home it was a fuckin’-” He pauses and waves a hand in the air, trying to think of the proper word for it.

“Transferable skill?” Ian supplies.

Mickey nods as he chews, “Yeah, that.”

Ian laughs lowly and watches Mickey with a curious expression, “You ran from home?”

“It was a shitty place,” Mickey says, not bothering to look at Ian and hoping he gets the message that this isn’t something Mickey is willing to talk about. Mickey locked up and buried that box a long time ago and he’s not digging it all up just for some cute redhead. So instead of waiting to see whether Ian will pry further or not, Mickey changes the topic, “How many PI’s have come after you?”

“A couple,” Ian says casually, “Once when I was still running around and another just after I moved home - that’s actually why I got my own place.”

“You offer to pay them off too?”

Ian laughs and shakes his head, “No, I wouldn’t be able to afford that.”

Now Mickey is fucking curious because he’s been wondering how Ian has avoided being caught for so long when he’s so shitty at hiding. “How’d you get them to back off then?”

“I managed to shake the first guy, went down to St. Louis and hid there for a while. He gave up pretty quickly, but I guess he wasn’t very good or maybe they weren’t offering enough,” Ian explains, “After I got home the second guy was a little trickier, they were pretty clearly offering him a lot and he seemed to have more experience,” Ian presses his lips together, staring at a spot on the coffee table in front of the couch, “Lip saved my ass with him. The guy went into the house one day when everyone was gone, still not sure why, but Lip caught him and threatened to charge him for trespassing and thievery and some other stuff. It scared him off but it forced me to get a little more careful and more observant.”

“Guess that worked out well for you, huh?” Mickey teases lightly.

Ian snorts, “Fuck off. I told you, you’re good.”

Mickey doesn’t answer that, but can’t stop himself from thinking that Ian’s wrong. If Mickey was actually good he would have turned Ian in by now, instead, he’s sitting on Ian’s couch and letting himself be drawn in by Ian’s natural pull.

“Why’d you go AWOL?” Mickey asks, he can’t help himself from keeping the topic on Ian, he just wants to know more about Ian - understand him a little better.

Ian takes a deep breath and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Mickey feels guilt creeping up as he watches Ian deliberate silently.

“You don’t have to tell me-”

“No, I want to,” Ian says and his lips pulling into a small smile, “It’s just, well, I’m bipolar.”

Bipolar, yeah, Mickey’s heard of that before. He’s not an expert or anything, but he knows there was an older guy on his block back home that was bipolar, his son lived with him to make sure he took care of himself but still half the time the guy would just run around doing weird shit and then there would be weeks that would go by that no one saw him.

“I was undiagnosed when I was in the army,” Ian continues, “I guess it was the reason I took off and joined in the first place. I mean, I was only seventeen and using my brother’s ID, it was a pretty crazy thing to think it would work out in the first place.”

Mickey didn’t know about that part, that the army was after Ian for something other than running.

“Then I stole a helicopter, tried to fly it off base and ended up crashing. I remember thinking that it was kind of a mess, that it was time to start running, but it’s all a bit hazy now. I stole a lot of stuff before I left though,” Ian looks down at his lap sadly, “I used to dream about joining the army.”

Mickey’s not sure what to say or how to make it better because there isn’t a way to do that. It’s fucked, what Ian did, what’s happened to him, and there aren’t words to make it better.

“But now I’m home,” Ian says and smiles tightly, it looks forced, “And I’m on meds, they kind of work, better than the last ones anyways, but it’s a lot of guesswork so it will probably be a while before I feel totally normal. I’m okay though, I feel more balanced.”

Mickey nods and swallows the knot in his throat, “That’s good, really good.” He pauses and then says, “Do you think it’s worth it? Hiding out like this and running?” Mickey looks over at Ian imploringly, “I mean, they’ve got to understand if you tell them about the bipolar thing, right?”

“Maybe, but maybe not. I don’t want to go to jail,” Ian answers.

It’s quiet for another long moment, Ian seems to be done his explanation and Mickey’s not sure what he can say.

“Thank you,” Ian breaks the silence, a genuine smile creeping up, “I haven’t talked about that stuff much, it’s just nice to get it out, even if you _‘don’t give a shit about my sob story’_.”

Mickey laughs bitterly, regretting his earlier choice of words, “Well, maybe I give a bit of shit.”

“You don’t have to,” Ian says softly, any hint of teasing gone.

Mickey sucks on his bottom lip and shrugs, “I know.”

Ian’s eyes meet Mickey’s and hold his steady gaze. The moment doesn’t seem real because who does this happen to? Mickey feels hot all over and desperate just to reach out and touch Ian, even an innocent brush of his knuckles along Ian’s arm. It’s so out of line and completely against every defensive rule that Mickey’s made for his job (or for his fucking life because Ian, fucking Ian, he wouldn’t be a quick fuck in the alley).

“It’s late,” Mickey murmurs, “I should probably leave.”

“Yeah,” Ian whispers, “Probably.”

Mickey stands up, walks over to the door, trying his hardest to convince himself that leaving is the best option. Things with Ian could get messy so fucking fast and it’s not worth it. Despite how fucking gorgeous he is, or how funny he is, or his damn cute smile, or the way that one look from him can make Mickey feel like his insides are on fire.

It’s messy.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” Mickey says curtly as he tugs on his jackets and slips on his shoes.

Ian nods and walks around the couch, standing in front of Mickey. It’s all very polite and Mickey feels a little disappointed. He expects Ian to say goodbye or at least something, but Ian stays silently, just watching Mickey with an indiscernible look.

“Alright, bye then,” Mickey says, starting to turn around only to have Ian grab his arm and spin him back into Ian’s arms, and drawing him into a kiss.

Every single hesitation Mickey has disappears as Ian pulls him in closer, his tongue teasing at Mickey’s lips and hands tugging away layers of clothing. Mickey reciprocates quickly, letting every single desire he has ever had to touch Ian come true. He runs his fingers over his chest and stomach, feeling the hard muscles underneath and groaning in satisfaction.

Ian is better than Mickey ever imagine.

Ian pulls off Mickey’s shirt and starts to walk them back through his apartment and towards his bedroom. Mickey gasps when Ian dives down to kiss and suck at the sensitive skin on his neck, fingers digging into his hips.

“Stay with me, Mickey?” Ian whispers against his skin.

It doesn’t sound like a question but Mickey knows better than that. So, he nods and draws Ian back into a deep kiss. Now that he’s found a place in Ian’s arms he’s not sure he would ever be able to leave.

-

Mickey wakes up to an empty space in the bed beside him. At first, it doesn’t concern him because his head is still in the fucking clouds. He’s loose and warm, thinking of all the ways Ian touched him, held him, and pressed into him the night before.

Ian kissing him deeply, tongue delving in just for a taste before he says, “I could kiss you forever.” Ian’s hands gripping his hips tightly, pounding against him and gasping about how good Mickey feels, how tight and warm and perfect his ass is. Ian’s lips dancing over Mickey’s skin, leaving wet trails as he kisses and licks every single inch of Mickey he can before doing it all over again. Ian’s cock deep inside, pounding in and out so fast and hard, leaving him breathless, gasping and pleading for, “more, please, fuck Ian, _don’t stop_.”

And then there’s Ian, breathing heavily, red-faced and coming down from his third orgasm of the night, leaning down and kissing Mickey over and over. Ian resting his head on Mickey’s shoulder and an arm across his stomach, slipping his fingers between Mickey’s and holding on tight. Ian whispering that he’s been waiting for this to happen since he first saw Mickey, that he can’t believe it finally did, that he wishes the night would never end.

So Mickey doesn’t worry about the empty space at first, just grins at the ceiling.

But then he realizes how quiet it is and remembers when Ian told him about the guys he dates. Tricking older rich guys, pretending to be someone he’s not for a night, and then stealing their shit.

And Mickey fucking panics, because this had to have been his play all along.

He feels like an idiot, drifting away in some fucking happy glow while Ian runs and hides. He should have known from the start that Ian was too good to be true, Mickey’s never been the type of guy that gets beautiful things.

He gets out of Ian’s bed, roughly pulling on his clothes and trying to think of where Ian could be heading, any hint of something he may have mentioned or somewhere he may have gone but Mickey can’t think of a damn thing.

Maybe Ian is a criminal mastermind after all.

Mickey walks into the main room and the smallest bit of hope he has that Ian’s just waiting for him at the kitchen, or on the couch watching morning cartoons, is fucking crushed.

He’s fucking crushed.

Mickey takes a second, allows himself just that, to feel bad for himself - to feel hurt and used. Then he straightens his back, cracks his neck and is ready to go. He has a few weeks left and he’s getting that fucking payout.

Fuck Ian Gallagher, he hopes he goes to jail.

Then Ian is bursting in the door, a little sweaty and dressed in his jogging gear. Mickey freezes and looks him up and down, and feels like a paranoid moron.

“Hey,” Ian says, grinning widely and walking over to Mickey, “You’re not leaving already, right? I had plans for you today.” He wraps his arms around Mickey’s torso, ducks his head and kisses just below Mickey’s ear.

“You went for a run,” Mickey murmurs and lets himself relax into Ian’s embrace.

Ian laughs and hums, “Where else was I going to go?” Mickey nods and huffs, then Ian pauses. He draws back to meet Mickey’s eyes and frowns, “Did you think I took off?”

“No,” Mickey says sharply making the blatant lie fairly obvious.

“I’m sorry,” Ian pulls Mickey in close again, kissing his temple, “I wouldn’t have gone but exercise and routine are good for me with, you know, everything. I should have left a note.”

“It's fine,” Mickey mutters, but maybe he holds onto Ian a little tighter because he still feels like this might not be a reality for him.

“I promise you, I’m not going to leave. We made a deal, Mick,” Ian teases lightly and pulls back to kiss him, “Gallagher’s don’t go back on their deals.” He pauses and thinks for a moment, “Or at least I don’t go back on my deals, especially not with sexy men I invite home.”

Mickey snorts and shoves at Ian’s chest lightly, “Fuck off.”

Ian shakes his head and laughs, kissing Mickey softly and then again and again. He hums happily and runs his hands lightly up and down Mickey’s sides. “We’re not leaving my apartment for the rest of the day, okay?”

Mickey smiles, feeling the same happy glow from earlier spreading, “Yeah, okay.”

-

Mickey finds himself in a relationship or something relationship adjacent. It’s new and strange to him but still exciting.

Being with Ian is better than anything.

Seeing his face light up every time he sees Mickey, holding his hand when they watch movies, cooking food with him and making a mess of it, falling asleep with his arms and legs surrounding Mickey, and then waking up to his beautiful face.

He doesn’t follow Ian anymore, not really, but he’s still around all the time. He drives him to and from work, goes to the park with him and his little brother, and even fucking visits his family one night (it’s an accident that his family’s home, and it ends up being awkward as hell but still weirdly good because Ian’s sitting next to him). 

It’s surreal and a fucking whirlwind, but amazing.

Mickey starts to forget why he ever met Ian - the Colonel, the army base, the money - and instead just feels so damn lucky that he did.

-

Ian’s laying on the couch, eyes closed and his head cradled in Mickey’s lap as Mickey cards his fingers through Ian’s hair. It’s damp and getting a little long but Mickey likes it, likes that he can play with it and likes that it’s free of all the product Ian tends to use (Mickey’s not one to judge but still).

It’s quiet in Ian’s apartment, neither of them even bothering to turn on the TV and pretend they’re paying attention to whatever is on. Mickey likes the quiet moments like this, just him and Ian together, enjoying each other’s company. It’s simple and nice, something Mickey thinks he’s craved his whole life.

“How long do your marks usually last?” Ian asks, interrupting the silence.

Mickey frowns, unsure but wary of where the conversation could lead, “Changes, depends on a lot of things.”

“But on average, how long?”

Mickey breathes in through his nose and leans his head back, trying to calculate some sort of average for Ian. He’s pretty sure whatever he says is going to freak Ian out, he’s not stupid, this is something that Ian worries about. He wants to be honest though because he thinks that Ian deserves the truth - no matter how hard it might be to hear.

So he thinks, trying to remember dates and people, but it does change. Everything about being a PI (or PI adjacent) depends on variables, there’s no set timeline to get the job done. There’s also such a variety of jobs (from tracking someone down and turning in their location, to tailing a cheating spouse and catching them in the act, to finding long lost family members), it’s hard to remember how Ian’s situation fits in.

He’s not sure how to answer.

“A couple of weeks, maybe?” Mickey finally says, “Isn’t a good answer though, fuckin’ changes all the time.”

“How long did it take you to find me?” Ian asks, brow furrowed with his eyes still firmly shut.

He thinks about lying then, just to make Ian feel better because he knows this will hit hard. “Five days,” Mickey says, feeling guilt pooling in his stomach as he watches any small bit of hope on Ian’s face fade away.

“If I don’t turn myself in, they’re just going to send someone else, aren’t they?” Ian says softly, still not bothering to open his eyes, as if he’s finally resigned himself to an inevitable fate, “After you’re gone, it’s just going to be someone else.”

Mickey tenses and his hand falters for a second, he doesn’t like to think about not being with Ian, about being gone, about what is supposed to happen in a just a week. “I guess,” He says, “I mean, yeah, they will.”

“Maybe I should just turn myself in then, get the money for you,” Ian sighs deeply, brushes his knuckles against Mickey’s knee.

Mickey stops then, “Ian, what are you talking about?”

“I don’t have the money for you, I don’t know why I told you I could get it but I can’t.”

Mickey huffs and drops his hand from Ian’s head because he forgot about that, it hasn’t been a concern for a while now. He’s pretty sure that any desire for the money was gone the second Ian spoke to him, whether he admitted it or not (Mickey has a bad habit of playing pretend to stay comfortable and safe).

Ian opens his eyes and stares guiltily up at Mickey, clearly misunderstanding his sudden change in mood. “I’m sorry,” Ian says, sitting up to put his hand on Mickey’s cheek, “I lied to you and, fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, fuck,” Mickey snaps and breathes out deeply through his nose, “You’re a fuckin’ idiot if you think I still give a shit about the money.”

“Mick-”

“No, I don’t want it anymore,” Mickey insists, reaching up to put his hand over Ian’s hand that’s still resting on his cheek. “I just want you, Ian, and I want you here, in your apartment with me. Not in fuckin’ jail, I can’t fuckin’ stand the idea of you in there, Ian.”

Ian’s hand is getting shaky, as if he might break down at any moment but is trying so damn hard not to, “It’s a lot of money, Mick, and if I’ve got to pick who gets it then-”

“Stop it,” Mickey says loudly, “Fuckin’ listen to me, I just want you, okay?” He uses his free hand to trace the lines on Ian’s face; his jaw, his nose, his lips. “I’m not going anywhere. You know, if you’ll let me fuckin’ stay, I’m going to be right here. I have experience with this shit, I’ll help you out and keep you off their radar.”

Ian looks like he’s contemplating it but that he still isn’t quite convinced. He takes a shaky breath, “You don’t have to do this for me, I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“You’re worth all the fuckin’ trouble in the world,” Mickey says quietly, pressing a soft kiss to Ian’s lips, “Just fuckin’ stay with me... Don’t be an idiot or do any noble bullshit, just stay, alright?”

Ian's lips quirk at the corners, pulling into a small smile as his eyes meet Mickey’s, “Alright.”

Mickey lets himself relax, breathing out in relief as he kisses Ian once again. He brushes his fingers through Ian’s hair and allows himself to bask in the moment. Ian’s not going away and neither is Mickey; they’re together, safe and happy curled up on Ian’s couch. Ian wraps his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, pressing his nose into the crook of Mickey’s neck and inhaling deeply. Mickey holds him closely and thinks once again that these are the moments he never wants to end.

-

Mickey walks into Ian’s apartment with a game plan. He’s figured it all out; how Ian’s going to keep himself hidden better, what they’re going to do if someone finds them out, how far they will need to run just to throw someone off before they come back, and how much money they need to keep on hand just in case.

He’s going to make this work.

Mickey finds Ian in his bedroom. He looks up from the comic he’s reading, lying on his bed with messy hair, seeming to have only changed into a different pair of boxers and a tank top than he was wearing in the morning when Mickey left.

“Did you do anything today?” Mickey questions.

Ian grins and shakes his head, “Not a fucking thing.”

“You lazy ass,” Mickey teases and pokes the bottom of Ian’s foot, silently asking him to shove over and let Mickey sit down.

Ian shakes his head and moves his arms from his chest, “Come lay down.”

“I gotta talk to you ‘bout something,” Mickey answers, knowing that if he cuddles up with Ian they aren’t going to get anywhere with the discussion. Ian’s been putting it off for the past few days but there are only two more days left until Mickey’s deadline and they need to talk. Their happy bubble is about to be threatened and Mickey has no intention of letting anyone spoil this for him.

Ian sighs dramatically and pouts, “Talk to me while you lay down.”

Mickey shakes his head, “No way, you can’t pull that fuckin’ cute shit and get away with it again.”

Ian doesn’t appear to listen, widening his eyes and wrapping a hand around Mickey’s wrist, tugging at it lightly, “C’mon, Mick, I’ve just spent all day missing you.”

“Not gonna work,” Mickey denies, though his determination is beginning to wane.

“I just want you in my arms,” Ian continues, his thumb rubbing softly at the inside of Mickey’s wrist, “Please?”

Mickey groans and rubs a hand over his face and roughly scratching at his hair, “Fuck you,” Mickey says but he says it with a shy smile and drops to carefully settle resting on top of Ian.

Ian grins and pulls Mickey into a sweet kiss, “You’re the best, you know that?”

Mickey snickers and rolls his eyes, “Yeah, you better fuckin’ believe it.”

Ian hums and squeezes Mickey tightly while Mickey plays with the hair at the nape of Ian’s neck. He momentarily forgets about everything he needs to talk to Ian about and instead just enjoying the present. It’s strange how often he does that now, it never used to be something that Mickey did. He was always moving forward, always looking to the next job or the next struggle, he never had time to just be and enjoy it. Though, before Ian, there wasn’t much for him to just sit and enjoy.

Ian brings so fucking much to his life.

“I got a plan for us,” Mickey murmurs, lightly touching his lips to Ian’s hairline, “figured out how to keep you safe.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” Ian says so softly that Mickey feels the words more than he hears them.

“We talked about this,” Mickey says tiredly because he’s done with this discussion - it shouldn’t have ever been one in Mickey’s mind.

Ian huffs out a laugh and nods, his nose rubbing against Mickey’s skin, “I know, I know, and we’re stuck in this mess together.”

Mickey pulls Ian’s face away from his neck, touching their foreheads and shaking his head, “No, you’re stuck in this mess and I’m choosing to be with you, I want to be with you. It’s different.”

Ian smiles fondly, brushing his knuckles up and down Mickey’s back, “You’re something else,” he whispers.

“Is something else a good thing?” Mickey says, his memory going back to the night in the restaurant that seems so long ago.

Instead of staying silent like Mickey had, Ian kisses Mickey and says, “The best.”

Ian leans up, one hand moving to cradle Mickey’s face as he touches his lips to Mickey’s softly once again. Mickey’s eyes flutter closed and he fucking melts into it, melts into Ian, parting his lips and reaching out to pull Ian in closer. It’s loving and sweet and so fucking soft, Ian’s thumb rubbing across Mickey’s jaw while they move together.

They don’t part as Mickey’s hands travel up Ian’s tank top, or as Ian tugs off Mickey’s jeans. Just holding each other close, reverently pulling away their layers until they’re tangled together; skin pressed against skin.

Ian rolls them over, spreading Mickey out on the bed and draping himself overtop, not allowing for any space between them as he rasps, “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey” against his lips.

Ian’s fingers spread Mickey, moving slowly and carefully drawing little moans from Mickey’s lips. He stops and kisses Mickey, stroking his cheek and watching him so carefully as he finally pushes in. They find a rhythm quickly and move together, never letting their touches become desperate or clinging because that’s not what this is. It’s something else, something that Mickey’s only ever had with Ian and only ever wants with Ian. The way Ian’s hands run along his arms and body, caress his neck and brush through his hair; it’s so fucking gentle and fond.

Mickey opens his eyes to look at Ian, meeting his steady gaze, and realizes he’s in love. He doesn’t even know when it happened, just that he’s here with Ian and so desperately in love with him. He thinks maybe there wasn’t even a falling point, maybe he’s just always loved Ian. Mickey kisses Ian again, deep and languid, as he finds Ian’s hands, grasping them with his own. Ian lifts them to hold them above Mickey’s head, pressing them into the bed as he drives further into Mickey.

Mickey doesn’t know how long it’s been by the time he feels his body begin to tense, just on the edge, but he knows it’s not long enough. He doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t ever want to stop this moment because he doesn’t think there will ever be another moment so perfect in his life. Ian gasps out Mickey’s name one last time, pressing their foreheads together and breathing against his cheek as he comes.

Ian keeps moving, keeps pressing inside Mickey, even as he softens, and muttering his name like a prayer, releasing Mickey’s hands using the new freedom to brush his fingers from Mickey’s forehead to jaw with one hand and the other hand to wrap around him and moving in time to his shallow thrusts. It’s perfect and too much but not enough at the same time. Mickey whimpers softly and then it’s over, arching up against Ian’s body.

Ian doesn’t try to move and Mickey doesn’t try to make him. He’s warm and comfortable with Ian’s body covering his - arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled together - more so than he thinks he’s ever been.

“Do you think you can tell me about everything tomorrow?” Ian asks quietly.

Mickey remembers how determined he was when he walked in that Ian needed to know, and even though he’s half-convinced that this may have been Ian’s way of avoiding the conversation, he says, “Yeah, tomorrow morning, as soon as we wake up.”

Ian laughs and kisses Mickey’s cheek, “Thank you.”

Mickey doesn’t bother answering, he’s sure Ian already knows that he would do almost anything if Ian just asks him. He remembers a time when he used to consider that to be a weakness in someone, but now he thinks that he’s probably so much stronger because of it.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Ian says quietly, and it’s as if his voice echoes Mickey’s thoughts, “I used to, or maybe I just didn’t know that I was lost then.”

“Fuckin’ sappy,” Mickey grumbles despite the swelling in his chest.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ian responds, his grip tightening on Mickey, “But it’s true and I just wanted you to know, or, want you to know that you’ve changed everything for me. You make me better, I think, and you make me so fucking happy every single second of every day just by being alive. I want everything good for you, I think you deserve that, probably more than that. Just anything I can give you, or could give you, I would. I don’t know how to explain it, and I’m probably fucking it up, but I just have never been so glad that I met someone as I am that I met you.”

Mickey's eyes feel a little wet and he’s fucking shocked because even though he knew that Ian cared about him, it’s so different to hear out loud. Mickey decides then that the most incredible feeling in the world is hearing someone you love so completely and desperately, telling you they feel the same way.

And so he says, “I love you.”

Ian smiles, kisses Mickey, and says, “Well, if you want to go the short way about it.”

“You’re such a dick,” Mickey teases and laughs loudly.

Ian grins and nods, “Yeah, but you love me.”

“Yeah.”

“And I love you.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey falls asleep tucked in Ian’s arms with a smile on his lips.

-

Mickey’s phone rings at 7:10 am.

He groans loudly, rubs a hand over his face and reaches out for his phone. He’s tired and groggy, it’s clearly way too fucking early for someone to be calling him. He picks up the phone, not bothering to check who is calling before he swipes and says, “Fuckin’ what?”

“ _Mr. Milkovich?_ ” A strong, deep male voice comes over the phone, “ _This is Colonel Jeffrey Lowe, and we spoke some weeks ago about tracking down Private Ian Gallagher._ ”

Mickey sits up straight and clears his throat, “Yeah, yes, sorry about that.”

“ _It's fine,_ ” Colonel Lowe answers tightly, “ _I am just calling to inform you that your information that was sent to us was sound, though we did expect it to come much earlier than it did based on your reputation. Thank you for your assistance and your payment has been wired to the account that you gave us._ ”

Mickey’s stomach drops, he turns to see the empty spot in the bed next to him and suddenly he’s beginning to panic, “So, you got him?” Mickey checks, trying to keep his voice steady but it cracks anyways.

_ “Yes, he is now in our custody. We would like to keep your contact information as well, if that is approved by you, just in case there becomes another incident such as this? _ ”

“Sure, whatever,” Mickey answers, barely listening to anything Colonel Lowe is saying, “I gotta go, thanks for the business,” and then he hangs up.

He doesn’t quite believe it yet, has to stand up and check around the apartment but finds no sign of Ian. He grabs his phone and dials Ian’s number, waiting and waiting until he overhears Ian’s phone vibrating on the kitchen table.

“Fuck,” Mickey hisses, tears burning in his eyes as he stands in the middle of Ian’s apartment.

Ian turned himself in.

He wonders how long Ian had known he was going to do that, how much information he had passed along to the army, how he had done it under the guise of being Mickey. He drops heavily onto the couch and puts his head in his hands, letting out a small choked sob. This is exactly what he was so scared of happening. He found Ian and he never wanted to let him go, and now here he is alone once again.

Yeah, Ian got him the money, but fuck, how is that going to help him if he feels like he’s left in pieces.

Mickey thinks of the night before, all of Ian’s loving touches and words, realizing that it was his way of saying goodbye.

-

The room is white everywhere with fluorescent lights. It’s uncomfortable how bright the room is, how sterile and unnatural the whole place seems. The room is just a big rectangle with a small rectangle on the inside made of Plexiglas and benches. It reminds Mickey a bit of the time he was in Juvie, except this time he’s on the wrong side and this time he’s scared.

Mickey taps his fingers impatiently, waiting for Ian to finally be drug over to the opposite side of the glass and pick up the phone. He’s glad he didn’t see Colonel Lowe on the way in because he’s not sure what he could say to explain why he’s here to see Ian.

Not that it matters anymore, they got Ian and as far as Colonel Lowe knows it’s because Mickey turned him in.

His thoughts are interrupted when he finally sees Ian walking up. He’s dressed in a taupe jumpsuit and his hair's a mess, he looks tired and his skin is paler than usual. Fuck, Mickey can’t quite explain how he’s feeling; it’s a like a combination of relieved that Ian is there in front of him, but still so terrified and worried about him.

Mickey picks up the bulky black phone, putting it to his ear and watching as Ian does the same.

“You didn’t need to come out here, Mick,” Ian says quietly, looking at least a little happier to be talking to Mickey than he had when walking up.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, he means it to come out harsher but he feels a little choked up, he was so fucking worried about the ginger asshole sitting across from him and he just can’t bring himself to be mad anymore. “You’re an idiot,” Mickey murmurs, “You shouldn’t have pulled this shit, shouldn’t have done this for me.”

Ian smiles fondly at Mickey, even if his smile is a little smaller than it normally would be, “It wasn’t just for you. I was tired of hiding, and then you kept talking about how _we_ could keep running and hiding, fuck Mick, I don’t want you to have to spend your life hiding with me.”

“Better than spending it without you,” Mickey says softly, surprising himself.

“I won’t be in here forever.”

Mickey nods and looks down at where his free hand is spread out on the tabletop. “How long you looking at?”

“Maybe no time,” Ian answers quietly and Mickey recognizes that tone too well to be hopeful, “Maybe five years.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey hisses and rubs his hand over his face, trying to keep himself calm and collected but it’s fucking hard. He can’t imagine that - five years of Ian being locked away. He doesn’t think he would be able to take it, even in the short time they’ve known each other Mickey is locked in. He’s grabbed onto Ian and he can’t let go, can’t stand being apart, especially for five fucking years.

“It’ll be okay,” Ian tries to comfort him, his free hand pressed against the bottom edge of the glass like he’s trying to reach out touch Mickey’s hand.

Mickey nods and sniffs, “That’s a fuckin’ long time, Ian.”

“But it might not be,” Ian says like he’s trying to be hopeful but in the end, all it sounds like is a lie. “A lot of people and companies don’t understand mental illness, but the government is kind of forced to.”

“Someone tell you that or are you just guessing?”

Ian half-smiles at Mickey’s teasing, “It’s an educated guess.”

Mickey nods and looks at a spot on the wall, he’s having a hard time looking at Ian for too long, like if he does that’s accepting the reality of their situation. He’d rather look at the wall, ignore it all for just a little while longer before he lets his whole life go back to being shit. Because without Ian, that’s what it was, years and years of terror and horrible memories. Mickey had thought maybe he’d reached the end of that, with Ian at his side everything was supposed to be better - everything was better.

“Mick, it’ll be okay, I promise.”

Mickey looks up at Ian, sees him still touching the glass with the tips of his fingers, and Mickey finds himself mimicking the stance. He reaches out and presses the tips of his fingers against the glass where Ian’s rest. It’s sappy and stupid but Mickey feels just the slightest bit calmer knowing that Ian is just there, still reaching out to him and still wanting him.

“I miss you,” Ian whispers, “That’s probably fucking stupid.”

It’s been less than a day and it is probably fucking stupid, but Mickey gets it.

“Yeah,” He says, his throat suddenly feeling dry and gravelly, “I miss you too.”

Ian smiles softly, using one finger to stroke over the glass where Mickey’s is pressed, “I’m going to take you on a date when I get out of here.”

“Oh yeah, what are we going to do on this date?”

“We’ll go to one of those fucking fancy restaurants you hated so much, except this time we’ll sit together and since I’m paying I’ll order for you. For the main course, it will be a really good steak.” He laughs lightly, flashing his teeth briefly, “And I’ll get you a starter salad because you won’t like it but it’ll make me laugh. Then some kind of cake for dessert and we’ll share that. Maybe go for a romantic walk by the lake later, depending on how warm it is, and just fuckin hold hands or something.”

Mickey laughs because it's so fucking sappy but he realizes that he wants that too, “Yeah, yeah, let’s do that.”

Mickey knows that no matter how long it takes, that date is going to happen. He knows he’ll wait for Ian, even if it ends up being five years or more. Because at the end of all the shit in his life, there were a few perfect weeks with Ian, and if it takes years of shit to get back to those few perfect weeks, he’ll do it.

Mickey thinks maybe he should tell Ian he loves him, some sort of significant and beautiful goodbye that will last until the next time he can come to visit. He doesn’t though, leaves their beautiful goodbyes in the night before and just sits with Ian until he has to go.

-

Mickey is sitting in his car.

He’s flipping his phone up in the air and catching it, focusing on the repetitive motion and trying not to think too much. He’s been doing that a lot these days, trying not to think, because he knows what will happen if he does.

Because he knows he’ll think of Ian and he hates thinking of Ian these days.

It’s not the Ian part that he hates though, he loves that part, it’s the part where he remembers that Ian isn’t here. Ian isn’t in Chicago, isn’t at his job, isn’t at the park with his brother, isn’t with his family, isn’t in his apartment or his bed, or Mickey’s arms every single fucking night.

Ian isn’t here and it fucking hurts.

It’s been three weeks and Mickey is already going insane. He just needs Ian so fucking badly and the half-hour visits at the prison every couple of days aren’t helping. It doesn’t look like it’s about to change either. So far Ian hasn’t said anything about the Army’s decision, just keeps saying that they’re still looking into the evidence he presented and they’ll get back to him soon.

Mickey thinks that maybe three weeks is long enough that it just means Ian is lying to him.

Mickey misses his phone, letting it fall onto the car floor by the passenger seat. He’s too distracted now to be doing well with his stupid little game. He reaches down to grab the phone and groans because his back fucking hurts.

That’s what sleeping a car will do though.

Ian said he could sleep in his apartment, and Mickey could probably set himself up in a hotel room if he wanted, but he doesn’t want to. The idea of sleeping in a bed, knowing there’s a phantom space next to him, he just can’t do it yet.

Four more years, Mickey thinks, four years and forty-nine weeks.

He can do this.

-

Mickey’s sleeping when he’s startled awake by his car door slamming closed later that night.

He automatically grabs onto whoever is in the passenger seat and slams them back against the seat with his forearm pressed against their throat. His eyes slowly adjust to the dark, the perpetrator of the break-in becoming clear, and Mickey drops back.

“Nice to see you too,” Ian says, rubbing at his throat but never taking his eyes off Mickey.

Mickey’s eyes are wide, taking in every single inch of Ian, gasping out a breathy, “Fuck you.”

Ian smiles softly and reaches out to drag the tips of his fingers along Mickey’s jaw. “I went home but I couldn’t find you,” Ian says, “I thought maybe you’d given up.”

Mickey shakes his head and lifts a hand to cover Ian’s, clinging to it tightly, “Never.”

“I’ve got to do some community service and I can’t leave the state for a year,” Ian explains quietly, “But I’m free.”

Mickey can’t quite explain his joy, doesn’t know how to express in words how happy he is that Ian is here, never mind that Ian is fucking free. So he leans in and kisses Ian’s lips, then softly again and again until he can’t anymore because he’s smiling too much.

“You want to go inside? It’s fucking cold in here,” Ian says rubbing at his arms for emphasis.

Mickey nods and, not for the first time and not for the last time, feels so fucking grateful that he was hired to track Ian down.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @ [meganwwrites](http://meganwwrites.tumblr.com)


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